


The Arena

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, F/M, Gore, HEA, Tragedy, creature - Freeform, voldemort wins au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 18:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: Every night, Percy tries to survive the Arena.





	The Arena

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing Me a Rare: The Soundtracks. 
> 
> Song Prompt – Venus in Furs by the Velvet Underground - Blood and Chocolate
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this creation.

The crowd chanted in time with his heartbeat; both sounds thundered in his ears in a violent rhythm.

“Kill it!”

“Kill it!”

“Kill it!”

With a shuddering breath, Percy pushed himself off the ground, growling as his left arm hung uselessly at his side. Another heave, and he steadied himself on his feet. 

“Kill it!”

“Kill it!”

“Kill it!”

He clutched his shoulder. A dislocation, it felt like, and his hand had swelled like a balloon beneath blood-matted fur. He was in terrible shape. Still, he was in a much better condition than his opponent.

Several feet away, a centaur crawled on the ground, his hind legs—whatever shreds were left of them—dragging behind him, painting the sand with violet-red streaks. Gashes and bite marks that marred his back wept with blood.

Blood that also dripped down the corners of Percy’s mouth. With his good arm, he tried to wipe it away, but it had already stained the short hairs on his chin.

He glanced at the crowd surrounding them. They sat in high, wooden stands. Not as high as the ones used for Quidditch—is there even such a thing as Quidditch anymore?—but high enough that even a giant would not be able to reach them. He could make out the twisted masks of their expressions, the hateful curve of their lips, and the cruel glint in their eyes. “Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!”

In the highest stand above the crowd, a lone figure sat in the shadows, the outline of her hair as disheveled and unruly as it must have been in Azkaban all those years ago.

“Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!” the crowd screamed.

_ Kill it. Kill it. Kill it, _his beastly heart echoed.

Bloodlust roiled in his chest like a beast wrenching its chain. It would not be long until Percy lost control again.

The Arena was simple. No matter who stepped inside its high, oval walls, there was but one question to be answered.

_ Him or me? _

To bring the carnage. To deliver the final blow. To walk or stumble or crawl out through those glass gates.

To survive.

_ Him or me? _

While Percy always hesitated, the beast inside him never did.

_ Me _.

And as Percy slipped under the current—

As his hands and legs were no longer his to control—

As hot, coppery fluid gushed inside his mouth like a bite of a ripe summer peach—

The crowd cheered.

* * *

  


Morning came quietly.

He sat up on the rickety cot, throwing off the moth-eaten square of fabric he called a blanket. He stretched his back and neck, feeling each sinew groan with overuse.

There was a bandage wrapped around his left shoulder. Percy unraveled it, revealing a bruised but intact joint. The swelling in his left hand had gone down.

The healer must have been busy fixing him up overnight.

Percy rolled his shoulder forward and back. “Good as new,” he grumbled.

With a sigh, he got up, pulling a shirt on as he took two steps to the door. He banged on it until the lock on the other side clicked and the door squealed open.

A guard greeted him with a heavy scowl. Just behind him, two more uniformed men spoke to each other in whispered tones.

“Hurry up.” The guard who opened the door jabbed his wand in the direction of the hallway, and then promptly turned his back on Percy, eager to soak up all that day’s gossip.

Percy walked silently past them. The hallway opened up into a long room with a high ceiling. He had heard some prisoners say that it reminded them of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The cavernous dimensions were the only similarity the two rooms held. While the Great Hall teemed with color and festivity, bright-eyed students and cheerful teachers, this mess hall from Hell was filled with monsters.

He picked up his tray of blackened bread and grey slop, maneuvering the room with practiced ease. 

A troll was lumbering the perimeter of the room, staring blankly up at the ceiling as it did so. _ Confunded _or potioned or a mixture of both; it was easy to avoid.

The group of centaurs to his right, less so. Their weighty stares prickled his skin, yet he ignored them. They knew it had to happen. They knew the rules of this place.

_ Him or me _.

Beyond their huddle, a scarred man sat at a table, spooning his slop. Percy made his way toward him.

Oliver Wood glanced up as Percy approached and set his tray down. The friendly lift of his remaining eyebrow turned into a furrow as he took in Percy’s healed shoulder. “Still good for tonight, then?” he asked, frowning.

“No rest for the weary.” Percy shook his head, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Oliver tutted. "Sorry to hear that, mate. Wish it would have been a more serious injury. For your sake."

Percy picked up the burned hunk of bread and popped it in his mouth, gesturing to his companion as he chewed. "Your leg?"

“Healer says one more day's rest."

He nodded once. "Good. You'll be missing the melee.”

Oliver glanced down at the worn surface of the wooden table, an apology in his eyes. "Yeah. I'm glad to." He cleared his throat. “I heard the guards talking. It’s not just a regular melee this time. It’s the Mistresses.”

The food in his mouth turned to sand. Percy choked as he tried to swallow it, forcing it down with a cup of tepid water. After a bout of coughing, he rasped, “_ Fuck _.”

The last time the Mistresses were at the Arena, he had been in the infirmary with a broken back. A lucky break, it had turned out; for when he was finally released, there was an eerie silence that settled over the compound that lasted for days.

Those who were able enough to watch the Mistresses fight were spooked by their swiftness and skill.

Those who had been well enough to be thrust into the Arena with the Mistresses…

By the time the Mistresses were done, an entire wing of the compound had been emptied.

“Word is—” Oliver leaned in, whispering, “Bellatrix has grown bored of the fights.”

A growl escaped from the back of his throat. “It’s not enough for her that she pits us all against each other night after night, forcing us to slaughter one another?” Through a film of angry tears, Percy glanced at the occupants in the room—centaurs and half-giants, gnomes and fae of all ilk, trolls and vampires and werewolves like him—

Magical creatures. Beings who weren’t purely human. All unwilling participants for the Dark Lady’s pleasure.

“And now she’s bringing in her Mistresses,” Percy hissed. Bellatrix’s hand-picked warriors. Trained personally by the Dark Lady herself, each woman knew how to kill with maximum cruelty, both by magic and by hand.

He looked around the vast room once again; two hundred and sixty-three heads. Many more in the other wings of the compound. He wondered how many of them would survive the night.

He doubted that he’d be alive to find out.

His gaze landed on Oliver, whose nostrils flared from some suppressed emotion. Oliver, who he had known for years; his last tie to what used to be. His only friend in the world. Percy reached across the table and squeezed his shoulder. "I'm glad you're not going to be there."

* * *

  
  
The guards packed them into the antechamber. Percy's nose was an inch from the glass. gate, his breath fogging up the lower part of his faint reflection. Just beyond, the Arena light was dimmed, waiting for that night’s entertainment to begin. 

The Lunar Potion was already swirling through his system, nudging at the slumbering beast within. His inner wolf roused, grumpy and snarling, as vicious as man or creature forced to wake before their time.

An angled limb dug between his shoulder blades, pushing him flush against the gate. Percy squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hang onto the reins of his body. It was not uncommon to see bloodshed in the antechamber before a melee began. They were not, after all, a team of any sort.

Every creature for himself. 

_ Them or me _.

His flesh stretched. His bones cracked. His mostly-healed shoulder groaned, but the wolf’s muscles formed around the injury, sheathing it with layers of tough sinews.

A low siren warbled through the Arena. Sixty seconds until the gates went up.

His eyes blinked open.

His reflection stared back. Yellow eyes, softly glowing. A sharp-toothed snarl and two pointed ears. Fur that covered every inch of exposed skin. 

There were parts of him that remained human. Fingers where there should have been claws. A squat snout, which never fully developed when using the potion.

He was not quite a wolf; but definitely not a man.

The siren pitched an octave higher, and, slowly, the glass slid up. Across the arena, the opposite gate mirrored theirs.

They stumbled out of the antechamber. There were pained yelps from the back of the group—a few guards helping them along into the Arena. They made their way to the center of the sandy battlefield, flocked together like young ducklings without their mother.

The overhead lights brightened, the intense white beams directed towards them. Percy threw ar arm up, covering his eyes until they adjusted to the light.

One blink. 

Two blinks.

On the third blink, his eyes could make out the shadows pouring out of the gates from across the arena.

On the fourth one, a spear whizzed by, missing his neck by a whisper. It hit the half-giant at the back of the group, blood spurting from its abdomen like a fountain.

At the periphery of the group, creatures peeled away from the pack. Some tried to scurry back to the gate; others merely ran from sheer panic. One by one, they were struck down by flying spears and arrows.

The Mistresses rushed towards them. Like Bellatrix, they all wore black. Their boots of shiny leather glistened under the brilliant lights. 

As they closed in, his tenuous hold over his body slipped.

…

A blood-curdling scream jolted him back to reality. Only for a moment.

…

The taste of blood lingered at the back of his throat.

…

His hands were slick. He held them up to his face, his sight blurry from sticky, red fluid that adhered to his lashes.

Bodies littered the ground at his feet. Many more scrambled to the outskirts of the oval arena, running from the dark-robed figures that chased them.

Percy spied the half-giant slumped over a small pile of bodies. Several arrows had sunk into his torso like pins through a cushion. 

An unfortunate ending for the bastard; but a place for Percy to take cover. And, if he was lucky, wait out the carnage.

He staggered towards his fallen comrades. He ignored the way his right foot didn’t quite land flat on the ground as he did so.

Nearly there.

Almost—

Something wrapped around his neck, and he fell forwards. He clawed at it, trying to pry it off before the darkness that threatened his vision overcame him.

A pointed heel dug into his upper back.

With the last of his werewolf-powered strength, he bucked. The grip around his neck loosened, and he tore it off, realizing that it was the tail end of a long whip. Ready to fight to the very last, he flipped himself over—

And saw Pansy Parkinson standing over him. Strands of her dark hair were plastered against her face, sweat making her skin shine under the bright lights. Her dark eyes were flat and cold with fury. 

She held a spear in her hand horizontally. In the next moment, she was straddled on top of his chest, the shaft of her spear pressing against his trachea.

The shock of her presence jolted through him like electricity, and with this newfound energy, he lifted his arms to ease the assault on his neck.

Pansy crouched lower, changing her center of gravity.

His battle-wearied arms gave out. He gave a strangled choke as the shaft landed heavily at the base of his neck.

Darkness—merciful darkness—crept from the sides of his vision. He was already halfway to dreamland. There, he could live like how he remembered. Surrounded by siblings and loving parents. Hogwarts castle glowing warmly above a deep lake. And somewhere in the clearing of a forest, Pansy waited for him, her dark eyes glinting in the moonlight, her full lips in a half-smirk.

The vision stirred his chest; and he didn’t know whether he wanted to speak to _ that _ Pansy, looking beautiful in the silver light, or the real one, who was currently trying to murder him.

He shaped the words in his wolfish mouth, the tip of his tongue dragging across the sharp points of his teeth. He sputtered, the transformation warping his voice, “Not— as bad— as— you think—” 

For a moment, the pressure against his neck increased. Then it released completely, and Percy doubled over, coughing violently. His eyes, which had screwed shut, fluttered open.

Pansy stared at him, lips parted in awe. “Head Boy?” she whispered.

Percy cleared his raw throat as he took in a lungful of air. “Pansy,” he exhaled. 

She gazed up at the mayhem around them, her eyes darting from Mistress to Mistress. All were busy hunting down the last of the creatures. Then her dark eyes frantically bored into his.

Without thinking, Percy raised a hand, reaching for her face. “Pansy.”

She flipped the spear in her hand.

The last thing he saw was the blunt end of her weapon rushing towards his face.

  


* * *

**1994**

“—my father.” From the sneer in the tone, Percy knew the voice belonged to Draco Malfoy. The gravelly sniggers that echoed down the hallway were likely from the boys who never left his side, Crabbe and Goyle.

Those three had given him trouble since his early days as a prefect. Now that he was Head Boy, it had not gotten any better. From the way they sounded, it seemed as if someone had fallen victim to their bullying once again. 

Percy rushed down the hall to save their newest victim. As he did, he adjusted the badge on his robe, still sparkling from when he shined it that morning, like he did every morning. He held his head up high, but just as he rounded a corner, another set of footsteps came from the opposite direction, and another voice soon piped up.

“There you are, Draco! I’ve been looking for you.”

“What is it, now, Pansy?” Draco asked irritably.

“I thought you’d like to know,” Pansy replied, a slight huff in her voice, “that the Quidditch match is about to begin. The Gryffindor and Ravenclaw teams are out there warming up right now.”

“And?” Either Crabbe or Goyle asked.

Percy peeked around the corner. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle towered over a young girl—a first-year Slytherin with sandy hair. He couldn’t recall what her name was. Just on the outskirts of the shadows, Pansy stood separately. 

“And I thought you had a special surprise in store for Potter. That’s all.” She shrugged. “But if you’re backing down—”

“Of course, we’re going to do it,” Draco snapped. “This poor, little nobody just got in our way.” He bent down to look the young girl in the eye. “Didn’t you, Nobody?”

The First Year nodded eagerly.

Pansy cleared her throat. “I left the robes you wanted on the behind the third post under the Slytherin stands. Just like you asked.”

Draco straightened up, running a palm over his smooth, platinum hair. “Good.” He glanced at his sidekicks, nudging them with his chin. “Let’s go make Potter cry out for his mummy.”

The three stomped away, leaving Pansy and the young girl alone. As soon as they were out of sight, the younger one sniffled and bent down, picking up the books littering the floor.

Pansy sighed, taking a step towards her, though not helping her pick up the books. “Do yourself a favor and stay out of sight when there’s a Quidditch match scheduled for the day. Especially if Gryffindor is playing. It puts Draco in an irritable mood.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t know,” Pansy sneered, her arms crossing over her chest. “Away.” Her dark eyes flicked down the hallway. “Go on!”

The young student scrambled to pick up the rest of her books and rushed away from Pansy’s upturned sneer.

As she disappeared into the adjoining corridor, Pansy grumbled softly to herself.

Percy stepped out from his hiding place just as Pansy turned around in his direction. Her round eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed as they settled on the badge displayed prominently on his chest. 

“What do you want, Head Boy?” she asked.

"That was nice, what you did there." He waved in the space where the young girl had stood minutes before. “Helping her out like that.”

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about." She snorted, shoving him with her shoulder as she passed him.

"You know,” Percy said, turning around to watch the Slytherin stomp away from him, “you're not as bad as you think you are, Parkinson."

She groaned, her head thrown back in exasperation.

He cupped the sides of his mouth and shouted, "Five points to Slytherin!"

Pansy pivoted on her heels and, as she continued to walk away from him backward, offered him a rude gesture with her hands by way of thanks.

  
  


* * *

The banging of the doors startled him awake. Blearily, he gazed around the square room, shaking the feeling of disorientation. Narrow beds were flanking the one he was lying in, each one covered with what used to be white sheets but were now spotted with various shades of brown.

The infirmary. Despite the many injuries he sustained, Percy rarely found himself there. Most creatures, if they survived their bouts, were healed overnight while they were unconscious. A safer alternative for the few Healers in the compound, when having to deal with beings and beasts of various cognition.

If they had kept him in the infirmary until now, he must have been at Death’s door.

He took a deep breath; it confirmed his suspicions as a sharp pain pierced his torso like an invisible dagger. Gingerly, he raised himself on his elbows, noticing the bandage wrapped around his abdomen. He traced the cloth with the tips of his fingers, finding a tender, puckered ridge the length of his palm just below the left side of his ribcage.

“I’d be careful with that if I were you.”

Percy jumped, hissing as pain shot through him.

Across the room, a woman was sliding a curtain closed, giving the occupant behind it some privacy. She had in one hand a vial of fluid, and in the other, a contraption that Percy had never seen. The little metal globe glowed orange in her hand, and it must have been bad because she frowned.

“Sorry?” Percy asked. “Did you say something?”

The woman glanced up. “I said do be careful.” She set the items in her hand down on a flimsy table and made her way to his bedside. As she neared, he noticed that she wore the uniform of a Healer, a set of powder blue robes that matched her eyes. “I tried my best to keep all of you in place, but there’s only so much that magic and a needle can do.”

“What happened to me?”

“You sustained a ten-centimeter laceration to your liver. Lost many liters of blood—I can’t even hazard a guess since you were covered in so much of it. Although I don’t believe it was all yours.” She waved a wand over his injury. A white wisp floated above him, and she nodded once, seeming satisfied with her evaluation. A lock of dark blonde hair escaped her cap, and she tucked it neatly back behind her ear. “You were as pale as a ghost, which is probably why the guards who collected you from the Arena marked you for dead. You’re lucky I thought to double-check everyone—I usually don’t, you know—or you would have woken up in the incinerator.”

A mixture of relief and anguish flooded over him. “So, I’m fine?”

The healer nodded. “Whoever stabbed you missed all the vital parts. Except for, you know, the liver.” She shrugged. “But even then, I’ve seen much worse. You’re very lucky.” She gestured for him to lie down, and for the next few minutes, she completed her assessments with little more conversation.

As the wand flourished above him, sparking different colors of lights, Percy remembered who it was that had likely put the tip of a spear through him. 

He suspected that luck had nothing to do with it at all.

* * *

  


**1998**

There were explosions everywhere—illuminating the clouded sky, flying down the hallways and shattering the walls of his beloved classrooms. The entire castle shuddered as the battle raged on, but, for the moment, it was all in the back of his mind.

At the forefront of his thoughts was the Werewolf that was chasing him, and the very urgent need to hide from it.

Percy had been running blindly through the darkened corridors. Finding his way blocked, he dashed down a flight of stairs that led to the dungeons; he ducked into an alcove halfway down the narrow hall.

Seconds later, the Werewolf thundered down the spiral stairs, pausing at the end of the empty passageway.

In the shadow of the alcove, Percy held his breath.

The creature’s long claws clicked on the stone floor. It grew louder as it neared Percy’s hiding place, its echoes drowning out the pandemonium above.

For a moment—it felt like an eternity—the Werewolf halted mere inches from him, so close that its rancid breath nearly made him gag.

Just as it was about to poke its nose into the recess where he hid, the creature turned its face towards the bend in the hallway. Then, it leaped away like a dog being called by its master.

Percy released a quiet sigh as he sagged. A temporary relief; in the next breath, a shriek pierced the air, coming from the direction in which the Werewolf left.

He raced down the corridor, wand clenched in his fist. As he turned a corner, his heart stuttered. The creature loomed over a figure cowering against a wall.

Without a second thought, Percy shot a wordless spell, throwing the creature to the other end of the hallway. It landed against the stone with a satisfying crack.

He sprinted to the creature’s intended victim, his eyebrows lifting as he took her in. Thick, dark hair in a disheveled bun, her green Slytherin tie askew. But as he neared, she leveled him with a familiar stare, fierce and unyielding.

“Parkinson.” He straightened his horn-rimmed glasses, which had gone lopsided during his sprint.

“Head Boy,” she rasped.

A blast rumbled the ceiling above them. Percy glanced down at the young woman, who, despite looking like she could maim her enemies with her sharp glare, was also very much alone.

He held out his hand. “Stay with me.”

As the castle trembled once more, her hand slid onto his palm, and together, they ran. 

* * *

  


Despite the healer’s nonchalance at his injuries, it took three days of confinement in the infirmary before she cleared him for fighting.

Just in time, according to Oliver—” Bellatrix is coming.”

After three nights of wasteful carnage in the melee, Bellatrix was said to long for variety.

“Line up for her Ladyship,” yelled one of the guards as they were herded into the mess hall. “She’ll be choosin’ one of ya to fight a Mistress for tonight’s battle.” 

They were organized in rough rows. Despite his tall frame, Percy was shoved forward in the first row, a group of gnomes hiding behind him.

A minute passed, silently at first, but the clicking of heels grew louder with each tick of a second. Then, the double doors burst open, and Bellatrix Lestrange marched into the room.

Everyone’s attention focused on the Dark Lady; all but Percy, whose gaze zoned in on the young woman behind her.

Pansy wore the customary robes for Mistresses—black as midnight and lined with grey fur. Percy recoiled from the sight of it hanging from her shoulders. Even from this distance, he could smell the creature that it used to be.

_ Werewolf. _

Bellatrix paced the row swiftly, her shiny boots clicking loudly on the floor. Pansy’s heels matched hers, echoing the Dark Lady step-for-step.

Click-Click.

Click-Click.

Bellatrix’s venomous gaze traveled down the line as she passed each creature.

Click-Click.

As they neared, the vampire beside Percy tensed, his pale visage becoming practically translucent.

Click-Click.

The Dark Lady’s crazed eyes passed over Percy. A shiver ran down his spine.

His gaze shifted back to Pansy, who had noticed him for the first time.

Click—

Silence hung in the air. 

Slowly, Bellatrix turned on her heel.

She glanced first at Pansy, whose eyes flooded with horror at her mistake.

Then at Percy, who refused to meet her gaze.

Back at her chosen Mistress, who, within a blink of an eye, had schooled her features.

But the grin on the Dark Lady’s lips told them it was far too late.

“This one, my dear,” Bellatrix crowed. She stepped into Percy’s space, the tip of her patrician nose grazing his skin as she appraised him. Over her shoulder, she gave Pansy a wicked smile. “You’ll fight this one tonight.”

* * *

  


**2000**

Moonlight bathed the clearing, leaving nary a shadow beyond the line of trees. Still, tension stayed in his shoulders as they usually did until she arrived.

As much as he always longed to see her, Percy hated to meet with her on nights during a full moon. The packs ran rampant through towns and forests alike. Some did so on Voldemort’s bidding; most did so just to create chaos.

As he glared up at the brilliant moon, magic passed through him—the familiar caress of Pansy’s spell as she erected their protection ward. Soon, he spotted her cutting across the field of grass and wildflowers.

He rushed to meet her halfway. “Is it true?” he asked. “The reports—”

As Pansy reached him, she halted his questions with a deep, urgent kiss.

Despite the imperativeness of the topic, Percy lost himself in her presence, his lips pressing hard against hers, his fingers winding their way into the neat braid at her nape. 

When the need for breath became too much, he pulled back, but only far enough so that he could stare into her eyes. “Pansy,” he said breathlessly.

She nodded. “It’s true. He’s dead. I heard Father and the others discussing it before I left.”

He held her tighter against him. “The line of succession?”

“Bellatrix.” She pressed her palms against his chest and stepped out of his embrace. 

Percy’s arms hung limply at his sides. "It's worse than we feared,” he whispered. “If it was anyone else—Dolohov, maybe, or even Malfoy, but _ Bellatrix— _” He took his glasses off, worrying the bridge of his nose anxiously. “Mum tried to kill her once. Bellatrix is unlikely to forget that.”

Pansy shook her head.

With a heavy sigh, he donned his glasses back on. "If she’s taking over, we're going through with it."

Her gaze cut to him sharply. “You’re leaving the country?”

“My family has been fugitives under Voldemort from our support of Harry. With Bellatrix in power—” He growled, pacing back and forth. “We’re dead. We need to leave.”

"Oh."

He paused, gazing at her curiously. "You're—” Percy cleared his throat, the thought of Pansy not coming with them never even crossing his mind. “You’re coming, too, aren't you?" Everything inside him twisted in agony at the chance that she would say no.

Pansy snorted. “Are you fucking having me on, Head Boy? Of course, I’m coming with you!” She crossed the space between them, her arms entwining around his waist. “I was wondering when you’d ask me to stop playing spy and make an honest woman out of me.” She gave him a tight squeeze as she laid her cheek against his shoulder. “As honest a woman as I can be, anyway.”

He dropped a kiss onto her hair. “You’re not as bad as you think you are, you know,” he murmured.

…

After securing a promise to meet in the same clearing the following night, they parted.

The full moon lit Percy’s path as he reached a cottage hidden in a dense part of the woods. For the last few months, it had been a safe house for his family. What was left of them after Harry’s defeat.

The windows were dark when he approached; a safety precaution, as to not draw attention during the night.

As he entered inside, he slipped on something slick. He hit the floor facedown. His cheek was covered with a viscous substance, and he was about to ask what it was when he saw her.

Moonlight peeked through the slatted windows, illuminating his mother, who lay prone on the floor beside him. In the silver light, her skin was as pale as fresh parchment, and her neck gaped open, its contents already spilled.

Shock settled over him like a heavy blanket, and the only other thing that registered in his mind was the telltale sounds of rumbling growls.

* * *

As he stepped into the Arena, the crowd became deafening.

Slowly, steadily, he made his way toward the center. 

The figure across the sandy arena advanced even slower. Despite its heaviness, her fur-lined cloak swished around her ankles. Her leather boots glinted under the lights.

As she came closer, he saw her weapons of choice: a coiled whip in her right hand, a spear in her left. And the most wounding of all—her sharp glare, pointed directly at him.

The beast inside him rattled its leash.

_ Me. Me. Me! _ It cried.

Percy inhaled deeply. “No,” he told it. “_ Her _.”

For there was no other way for this to end. 

With hundreds and thousands of witches and wizards calling for a death—

With Bellatrix Lestrange standing at her box, leaning towards them in earnest—

With Pansy bearing down on him, her arsenal in her hands—

There wasn’t even a question on who had to survive.

“Her,” Percy said. His inner beast lashed at him, but he pushed it down beneath the current. 

And as Pansy approached, he fell to his knees. 

“Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!” the crowd chanted. Whether by brawl or by execution, they only hungered for spilled blood.

Pansy glanced at the weapons in her hands. She dropped the whip on the sandy ground and switched the spear to her dominant hand. Angled the pointed end down towards him. Cocked her arm back.

And hesitated. Fear flashed behind her eyes.

Over her shoulder, in her private box, the Dark Lady leaned forward in anticipation.

"Do it," he said. The years of fighting and killing for survival were like lead inside his weary bones. He was tired. He was done. "Please. Do it."

And she brought her spear down on him.

* * *

In the afterlife, Percy had not expected to wake up in the mud. But his back and his limbs were covered in it, and he was about to complain to the ether when she stepped into his line of vision.

“Pansy,” he said, a smile forming easily on his lips as though it hadn’t been absent for years. He stretched his arms towards her. “Come here.”

Her eyebrows quirked up, but she acquiesced, lying down beside him. She placed her head on his shoulder, her hand making careless circles on his chest.

A deep satisfaction came over him, and he exhaled profoundly. “This is nice,” he said, despite the slight shivering of his body from the cold mud.

Pansy snorted. “Oh, gods. You think you’re dead, don’t you?”

“I know I’m dead,” Percy said, dropping a kiss on top of her head. “And I don’t care because you’re here.”

She scoffed, running her hands sensuously down his torso…

And then—briefly—jabbed a finger into his left side.

Percy sat up with a yelp. He clutched at his side, feeling not one raised scar, but two—

And as he lifted his shirt, he saw the “X” on his skin—one line pinker, fresher than the other.

“You stabbed me!”

Pansy shrugged. “You begged for it.”

“How— What? How—” He scrambled for thought. “What happened? How am I alive? How are we here—” Tentatively, he reached out for her hand, afraid that she might disappear like some sort of sick cosmic joke. His fingers threaded through hers, and a happy sob escaped him. “How are we here together?”

Succinctly, Pansy filled him in. “At the melee, when I saw you—” She chuckled to herself. “After I got over the shock of seeing you alive after all this time, I had to act quickly. I wounded you where I knew it would look dramatically fatal but essentially recoverable—”

“Do people really not understand how important the liver is?”

“—and I had your healer make sure to nurse you back to health. She owed me, after all, from all those years I protected her arse in school.” She shrugged. “When we got away with it that first time, I knew I could use it again to get you out.”

“You planned it all? The fake death? How did you know Bellatrix was going to choose me as your opponent?”

“That,” she admitted with a grimace, “was actually just a fuck up. Sorry. I had planned on taking you out in the next melee. I had no idea Bellatrix would want me to fight one-on-one, and that she would choose you.” Lightly, her fingertips skimmed the raised edges of his wounds. “Thank Merlin it worked.”

For a moment, Percy stared at her, disbelief battling with the evidence of his senses. And then he threw his arms around her, laughing into her thick hair. “You— you—”

“‘Are not as bad as you think you are?’” she supplied.

He shook his head. “No. You’re worse!” He pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths intermingling as he laughed. “You put a spear through me. Twice! Fooled me into thinking I was being murdered by the woman I love.” He pressed a kiss first on one cheekbone, then on the other. “You’re terrible, Pansy Parkinson. Terrible and frightening and stabby and wonderful—” His lips grazed hers.

“I think all those years in the Arena may have gotten to you,” she mumbled into his kiss. “We do have to go soon, you know. Bellatrix will have found out by now that I’ve tricked her.”

“We will,” Percy said, pulling back and gazing at her upturned face. The sliver of moon that hung in the sky illuminated the sparkle in her dark eyes. With the edge of his thumb, he traced the curve of her lip, which was pulled up into a half-smirk. “We’ll go. Together.”


End file.
